To Whisper Another Name
by radialarch
Summary: Richard Brook is real, but he's never been innocent. / Character study. One-shot.


**Title: **To Whisper Another Name

**Disclaimer: **Nope, don't own.

**Spoilers: **_The Great Game _and _The Reichenbach Fall_.

**Pairings: **None.

**Rating: **K

**Warning: **Er, crime? Nothing explicit.

**Wordcount: **1160

**Summary: **Richard Brook is real, but not in the way you think.

_A/N: I...don't even know. Blame my headcanon?_

* * *

><p>James Moriarty was never young: there are no photographs of his first smiles, first steps, first loves. No, he sprang into being at the age of twenty-two, when a bored acting student named Richard Brook decided he needed a hobby.<p>

He had already tasted the power of crime by that time: poor Carl Powers, drowning in that _tragic_ accident. It was a heady rush, extinguishing that flicker of life and then, even more, getting away with it. But Richard, the talented actor with a self-effacing smile? _He_ certainly couldn't launch a career as a criminal. It wouldn't have been fitting.

Jim Moriarty, a man without a history, could.

For a time he led a Jekyll-and-Hyde existence, honing his skills in both his chosen professions. He was the kind-hearted Storyteller but commanded smuggling rings with ruthless precision. He organised the Dublin murders but played a doctor on his days off. The contrast didn't faze him; in fact, it delighted him. It was an exciting period of life, and some of Brook's best acting was done outside of the studio, never to be filmed.

And then, just as accolades began to pour in, all evidence of Rich Brook abruptly disappeared.

Moriarty's criminal empire had been conceived; he needed all of his focus to bring it to life, to watch for its first breaths.  
><p>

* * *

>London: an exquisite gem glittering in the moonlight. It sprawled far and wide, practically begging to be claimed, and Jim was more than happy to oblige. He etched his name into its shadows, letter by letter, and in a year of meticulous planning, the city's darker side was his.<p>Was this what it felt like to be a god? To stand above it all and watch deeds being committed in his own name – to hear people frantically struggling, and all for his approval? And the <em>power<em>, the sheer awareness of what he could do with a well-placed phone call...

One month. That's how long the ennui took to find him, whispering in his ear and rasping against his skin. Everything was so boring, so ordinary. Why couldn't anyone be _clever_ – distract him from the dull, colorless life that went on around him?

He turned to drugs experimentally but gave them up soon after. Sure, they brought him quicksilver moments of bliss, but that wasn't worth the film they draped over his senses. He didn't want to be trapped inside his own mind. No, what he craved was clarity: a chance to fix his diamond-sharp focus onto something for more than a breath.

He was slowly suffocating when he found Sherlock Holmes. Suddenly, his world was newly lit with brilliance.  
><p>

* * *

>At first the man was merely a nuisance, pulling at loose threads of delicately worked plans. Then he started to reach higher, hampering more and more of Jim's activities, and Jim finally took notice when the police nearly reached Moran.<p>His first reaction was annoyance; his second, intrigue. Sherlock was something new, nearly posing a challenge to Jim's self-made role, and Jim was determined to savour every minute of it.<p>

So he sent an order to all of his people: _Sherlock Holmes is mine_. And then he watched Sherlock in his work.

Sherlock, _lovely_ Sherlock, who saw through all Jim's tiny deceptions without ever having met the mind behind them. Sherlock, who could have easily been Jim's rival, but chose instead to work with the police. Sherlock, slipping in and out of a cocaine habit as he fell prey to the ever-present tedium of mere existence. Sherlock, under-appreciated, viewed with barely disguised suspicion, and too often, _criminally_, ignored.

Sherlock Holmes was a puzzle, and Jim wanted nothing more than to take him and lock him up for his own, to disassemble him piece by piece to figure out how he worked. The idea was hotly thrilling.

And Jim had always gotten what he wanted.

So he grinned to himself as he sat down to plan, the excitement thrumming through his bones.  
><p>

* * *

>At last, it was time to start the game – <em>their<em> game, even if Sherlock didn't know it yet. First step? Infiltration.

Jim from IT: no need to invent another name when his was already an alias. It was the first role he'd played in a long time. Still, he sank easily into character, a comfortable habit, shrugging on well-worn mannerisms and softening all his edges. How difficult could it be to charm a poor, lonely pathologist?

As it turned out, not at all. The girl was like a small puppy, eager to be loved and even more eager to please. A few gentle questions and she offered information, at first hesitantly, and then more freely, almost carelessly, as if it were nothing.

She was wrong, oh so wrong. Anything to do with Sherlock was _priceless_.

"So, how was work today?" And off she went, stories full of "Sherlock"s and hero-worship shining through her eyes.

She didn't understand. Sherlock Holmes was as far from a hero as one could possibly be. He probably would have been horrified at the idea. (Older brother, and a disappointment – the thought filed away for another time.)

They were alike, he and Sherlock: above the rules, above the commonplace, and most of all above every expectation. The same voice sang in their very blood.  
><p>

* * *

>Rich Brook. Reichen Bach. <em>The Great Falls of the Reichenbach<em>.

Jim had not intended to reclaim his past, but this – this was magnificent, this was perfect, and the best thing was that no one would suspect the truth. After everything was finished, after people finally started to wonder, they would ask, "Who is Richard Brook?" "An actor Moriarty invented."

And they would all be so utterly wrong. Not even Sherlock would know.

Well, at least he would get the joke – Jim had enough faith in him for that. But not the whole story, never: "Who stole the painting and let Sherlock get it back? Who catapulted him into the fickle spotlight of fame? Who arranged it all, from the beginning to the sweet, glorious end?"

"Who is James Moriarty?"

He was the king of half of Britain, the one and only consulting criminal, the most dangerous man you'd never meet, and for all of that he had never been real. All screens and mirrors, because what were names but masks to don and discard at will?

This was the exit in a fiery curtain of smoke, and as he took his bow he would be neither Moriarty nor Brook, but wholly himself. And then – no more _afterwards_, no more this dance between two equals. The thought was almost...bittersweet.  
><p>

* * *

>The gun, slipped into his pocket as an afterthought. But Sherlock's words sparked the idea, set it aflight. <em>As long as you're alive<em>.

Stayin' Alive. The Final Problem. _Life_.

"Bless you." For this game – for the way out.

"Well, good luck with that."

It takes one bullet.

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><p><em>You may have caught that every scene is a 221B (221 words, last word ending with B)? Except that last snippet, which has 221 characters.<em>

_Reviews are loved! _


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